Just A Girl
by EarthAngelGirl30
Summary: Sam is a Northern girl in London, who soon finds herself caught up in a world of sex, drugs and rock & roll. Band rivalry and teenage angst are a potent combination. How will she adapt, especially given her medical condition? Inspired by the Britpop era of the 90's, this fic mostly feature Brett Anderson of Suede, plus other notable figures such as Damon Albarn and Jarvis Cocker.
1. Chapter 1

**_Chapter One: The Strangers_**

 ** _Manchester - Present Day_**

It's funny how when you're younger, break-ups always seem so much worse than they actually are.

Now that I am older, I may not necessary be wise per say, but still wiser than I was at the tender age of seventeen, I look back on my first failed relationship and thank my lucky stars that my ex broke my heart. Because not only did I come to realise that I wasn't as deeply in love with him as I thought I was, but I'm also eternally grateful to him for having cheated on me like he did. Because if he hadn't, I would never have taken that fateful trip down to London, and I would never have had the time of my life.

 ** _London - 1992_**

"So, how long do you think you'll be staying for Sam?"

I heave an over exasperated sigh, knowing it won't be audible due to the surrounding racket of the marketplace. The continuous drone of chattering strangers, coupled with the bolshy voices of market traders trying to press their wares on the crowd, is loud enough to wake the dead.

Above, the sound of a plane heading in to land at Heathrow, or possibly Gatwick or wherever - I mean, take your pick, London certainly isn't short on airports- added to the noise, and somewhere in the not-so-distant distance, a train could be heard rumbling by.

"Not long." I reply simply, and wholeheartedly mean it. I have no intention of hanging around where I'm not particularly wanted.

"Right, okay." Jane, my stepmother responds rather pointlessly. And maybe I'm being paranoid or has she brightened now? Maybe it's just my imagination but she cracks the first smile since we've left the flat.

Now don't get me wrong, Jane is a nice enough woman. She makes my dad happy, which is all that matters. And it's not for me to question my father's sanity.

But we've never really hit it off, for whatever reason. It's nothing to do with teenage angst, or me being jealous of her commanding my father's attention and all that jazz - I never have, nor never will be a 'daddy's girl' so to say.

We've just never really gelled. Like oil and water, the two just don't mix. And it's as simple as that really.

So when my dad practically begged me to come and stay with him and his new wife in South London - at my mothers behest - I agreed under duress, in order to appease my parents.

Following a particularly heinous break up with my boyfriend, my mood was low and I can only surmise that my mother was afraid I'd give my waste-of-space, cheating ex yet another chance (he'd already had one too many than he deserved) and I presumed she thought that I'd be safe from his manipulative clutches at the opposite end of the country.

So clutching my newly purchased suitcase, I'd been put on a train, feeling like some sort of refugee, and was now doing my best to settle into the tiny spare room of my dad's Southwark flat.

Now aside from having to adjust to sharing a place with Jane, there are other issues. The first, more obvious yet trivial one being that I'm a Northerner in the South. And whilst this might not seem like a big deal, let me tell you that the majority of Londoners consider anywhere beyond Watford to be the 'North'.

Being quite sensitive and shy by nature, down here I've come to realise I may as well be from another country...or even planet.

It's not that I'm saying Londoners are unfriendly, but well...I'm starting to miss the little things one usually takes for granted. Such as chatting to people in the corner shop. Polite chit-chat such as commenting on the weather is pretty much considered Northern etiquette. Here if you attempt to start a conversation with a stranger people look at you as if you're mad.

Same applies when asking for chips and gravy in any London chippy. It's cheesy chips all the way - what kind of savage wants gravy with their chips? Well, a Northern one apparently. And God forbid don't mistake a saveloy for a sausage. Which leads me on to my accent...the minute I open my mouth anywhere I feel like a complete foreigner.

Hailing from a small town near Manchester, I consider myself to have quite a neutral accent (so my drama teacher used to tell me) so I don't sound particularly Manc. However I may as well be walking around saying "by eck!" judging by some of the looks I've had when buying my cigarettes.

Anyway, I digress...the other problem I've had to deal with is my dad's response to my health condition. I'm what's known as a type1 diabetic, which roughly means my pancreas doesn't produce insulin which is required to sustain the level of sugar in the bloodstream. I inject myself with two shots of insulin a day, and I need to monitor my diet so as not to have too much sugar or too little carbs.

I've lived with the condition since the age of eight, but as my dad has never really been around, he not only doesn't understand what it entails but also fusses over me to the point of driving me mad.

It's sweet of him, and yes if my blood sugar goes too high or too low it can be dangerous - but I can handle it. Well, I seem to have done alright so far. Given I'm still alive and haven't fallen into any coma's as yet.

So it is this rather irksome (to say the least) condition of mine which leads to Jane and I ending up in the next pub we come across.

My hands have started to tremble and I'm feeling pretty lightheaded - both tell tale signs that I'm in need of something to eat, or at the very least a sugary drink. After having traipsed around Borough market all afternoon, it's hardly surprising. Being as physical activity causes my sugar levels to drop.

We step inside and I'm hit with a wave of warmth and smell of alcohol which is strangely familiar and comforting. The sound of the hustle and bustle outside gives way to the sound of a jukebox playing in the corner, and the low hum of the handful of customers talking amongst themselves.

It is a long room, with a pool table at one end, and a small stage tucked into the corner at the other, with several tables and chairs dotted around.

"Do you want to grab some lunch?" Jane asks as we approach the bar, and the landlord overhears and swoops in before I can answer.

"Sorry ladies. Finished serving now, it's gone half past two." He informs us, with an apologetic smile.

"That's okay, I'll just have a large coke and maybe a bag of crisps." I say, depositing myself on a barstool before I totter over.

Jane nods, handing me a five pound note and for a moment I wonder if she's forgotten that I'm seventeen and not twelve. But before heading off to the ladies toilet, she asks me to order her a 'small wine'

Having overheard, the landlord turns to me and asks, "Red or white?"

"Umm.." I am totally stumped. Ashamed to admit that I have no idea. He's looking at me expectantly and I'm aware of other people hanging around the bar, and suddenly feel like a silly little girl.

"I'm..not...sure." I manage feebly.

"Does she like sweet wine or dry?" He adds helpfully. Except this isn't helpful. I'm at a loss. He may as well have asked me her favourite colour.

"I'll wait til she comes back and ask her. What can I get you treacle?"

"Oh, just a large coke please. No ice. Thanks." I mutter, and quickly do a scan of the surrounding area to see if anyone is sniggering at my awkwardness.

I find that no one seems to have noticed, and couldn't care less if I had grown another head whilst sitting here. But what I do notice is the figure sat at the opposite end of the bar.

At first glance I assume it to be a man, but then I do a double-take. They have longish brown hair, pushed back behind their pierced ears.

Is it a woman?

I can't tell. Not that it matters either way, but they're so impossibly pretty I decide it can't be a man. But...there's a certain chiseled look to the jaw, and the eyes seem too deep-set to be female. Their nose is long, and has a slight kink in it, betraying signs of it possibly having been broken at some point. If it wasn't for this minor imperfection, the face would've been almost too perfect.

Even though the flaw is barely noticeable, I somehow notice, which makes me realise then that I've been staring too hard and for too long.

Fortunately for me they are throughly absorbed in their newspaper, which is spread out on the bar in front of them, next to a half drunk pint of lager.

The landlord places my own drink in front of me, which I hastily gulp down. Thoughts returning to my current situation, I find my mind beginning to wander back to Mark...even though I promised myself I wouldn't think about him today.

Just then, a door at the side of the stage bangs open, and a larger than life, slightly scruffy looking young man bounds in. Shattering my thoughts.

"Give us a pint will ya Kev?" He demands rather than asks, but his tone is jovial enough.

Call me nosy, but I watch with keen interest as he makes a beeline towards the genderless figure.

"Not a bad soundcheck that mate."

"Hm" Gender-neutral responds noncommittally, not bothering to look up from the paper. And I find myself thinking what a little ray of sunshine this person is. Or isn't, as it were.

"Of course I am talking about ours, not yours!" Chortles the smiley one, who then does none other than look across right at me, and catches me gawping.

I turn away quickly, and pretend to suddenly find my fingernails fascinating. I can feel my face heat up, and will it to go away, cursing the way I blush so easily.

But before I know what is happening, Mister Jovial is at my side. I have no idea how he got there, it seems as if I blinked and missed it. Perhaps he can teleport like a mutant.

"Ello darlin', not seen you in here before." He points out, and I'm forced to look at him, despite still feeling flustered. "Can I get you another drink?"

"Um, no thanks."

"Aw, come on. What'cha drinking, vodka and coke?" He persists and flashes a dazzling, yet slightly crooked smile that I find utterly endearing. In spite of his somewhat overbearing manner.

"No, just coke. But I'm fine honestly." I manage a weak smile in return.

"Just coke?" He narrows his blue eyes at me suspiciously, as though he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "How old are you love?"

I hesitate briefly, feeling the prickle of heat rise up my neck. "Eighteen." I lie, and I know for a fact that I don't sound convincing.

Without intending to, my eyes momentarily wander passed the handsome stranger, and come to rest on his androgynous associate. I'm surprised to see him looking up now, apparently watching us curiously. They give me a slow, deliberate look, letting me know that they're aware that I just lied about my age.

My blush deepens, and the the hint of a smile plays upon their lips, still firmly in place even as they return their attentions to the paper in front of them.

"Well then, why aren't you having a proper drink? Ere, I'll get ya' one." My new companion is saying now, and to my relief, is none the wiser to my fibbing.

"I'm diabetic, alcohol affects my blood sugar so I don't really drink." I find myself explaining as a means to excusing my reluctance to accept his gracious offer.

"Sounds bloody awful. That must be so boring. Surely one drink can't hurt though."

"She said no, Damon." A voice, distinctly male, pipes up from the end of the bar and we both follow the sound. Gender-neutral appears to be a man after all, and he's sitting up straight now, folding his newspaper - which I note is a copy of the Melody Maker.

"Yeah I heard thanks, mate. Unlike yours, my hearing is perfectly adequate." The handsome stranger - aka Damon - exclaims irritably, and shoots him a disgruntled look which he purposely ignores.

"Your hearing might be, but your understanding is clearly lacking." The man I had formerly thought to be a woman fires back, before standing.

He's tall, and slender, the sleeves on the baggy, over-sized he's wearing hang down to his elbows.

Damon's already turned away and I notice is looking at me again. His eyes scanning my face, I feel quite giddy as a result of this man paying me such close attention. He's incredibly good looking, with long eyelashes and the cutest upturned nose.

"Are you coming to our gig tonight?" He drawls, in his prominent cockney accent. "It'll be a good show."

"Are you in a band?" I ask, my voice sounding more eager than I would have liked. But I'm a massive live music fan and a sucker for boys with guitars.

He beams widely at me, his smile seems to cut through the afternoon gloom, lighting up the entire room. "Yeah, you should come check us out."

I'm about to reply when for the briefest of moments I'm distracted by the pretty man, who has since meandered closer and is now standing adjacent to Damon. He makes a strange, barely audible sound, like a cross between a snort and a sigh.

I look at him quizzically, his eyes are affixed on Damon, who sensing his presence suddenly rolls his eyes.

"Brett's band are playing too. But they aren't as good as we are." He remarks almost dismissively.

Brett...Damon...do all men around here have names like this? Perhaps I've led a sheltered upbringing, only ever having met boys with what I naively and perhaps ignorantly consider to be 'normal' less unusual, glamorous names.

Still, this is London after all. Boho, beatnik central. Filled with chic, über cool creative individuals, and I suddenly feel so out of place, like Dorothy having awoken in Kansas.

The man named Brett doesn't respond, merely saunters away to the nearby pool table where he joins the two men who are currently mid-game.

"So, d'ya fancy it?" Damon presses, and without further hesitation I find myself agreeing happily.

By the time Jane finally reappears after having taken an impossibly long time, my new friend has bid me goodbye and vanished backstage - only after my having promised to come back later that night, in order to watch his band perform.

I finish my coke, and once seeing that I haven't been able to order her a wine after all, Jane decides she's not fussed about a drink and suggests heading home.

As we step out onto the pavement, I feel decidedly excited and nervous in equal measures. Wondering what the night ahead may bring.

All I have to do now is find something suitable to wear, and somehow manage to convince my dad to let me out by myself.

Ugh.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two: Introducing The Band_**

Blur is the name of the first band to play, and after having dressed in faded black jeans and a black skinny rib top, I'm starting to wish I'd made more of an effort.

Whilst the overall reception to the fuzzy guitar pop numbers they churn out is a bit hit and miss, it's the lead singer, the delectable Damon, who seems to be going down a storm.

He has, I notice to my dismay, attracted quite a following of predominantly female fans, who gather around the front of the stage, leaving me hovering off to the side, feeling slightly ridiculous.

My mass of dirty blonde hair, which has a slight natural coppery hint to it, hangs down passed my shoulders in unruly waves. I'm only wearing tinted moisturiser, black mascara and a tiny smudge of charcoal liner along my upper eyelids. My peach lip balm has all but worn off, having now transferred onto the rim of my glass. In the heat of the pub, and under the lights shining out from the stage I feel as if what little makeup I have on, is melting off.

Yet the beautifully painted gaggle of girls who are swooning over the band's frontman, look perfectly put together.

They're fully made up, and their crop tops, colourful micro skirts and platform shoes are a far cry from my scuffed Doc Marten boots.

The band are well into the fifth or sixth song of their set, when I realise I've finished my drink. Contemplating whether or not it's worth fighting my way through the crowd that has formed behind me in order to get to the bar, I stand for a while nursing my empty glass, absentmindedly bobbing my head along to the music.

I'm watching Damon bound and bounce across the small stage, when suddenly I'm aware of a tall figure looming over me.

I look up, and it takes my brain a moment to register who it is, their presence catching me completely off guard.

"Oh. H-hi." I stammer, feeling immediately flustered and strangely self conscious. And then I silently curse myself for being the first one to speak.

Brett...that's his name isn't it? Yes, pretty-boy Brett. His face is quite unforgettable, and in such close quarters, startlingly sublime. He really is far too beautiful to be a man.

"What'cha." He responds - which I think is a Londoners way of saying 'hello' - and nods his head, indicating towards the empty glass I'm clutching.

"D'you want another?"

I blink rapidly, not sure why I'm so surprised by the offer.

"It's Coke isn't it? Diet, yeah? So there's no sugar in it." He clarifies, leaning closer in order to be heard over the grungy tune that's emanating from the speakers.

"Y-yeah. If you don't mind? Thanks."

Without speaking he reaches out, taking the glass from me, his long fingers accidentally skimming my own. I feel a small spark of excitement with the brief contact, which I find confusing and unsettling.

Why am I stammering like an idiot? And why has my pulse suddenly sped up?

His tall, lean figure vanishes into the crowd, and for the first time I take in what he's wearing. Black, fitted jeans hang low on his narrow hips, and on his upper body a tight fitting shirt that actually looks more like a woman's blouse, clings to his form mercilessly.

He's certainly a sight to behold, and amidst this sea of baggy clothed men he sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb. Attracting several confused, and perplexed glances from the more testosterone-fuelled, beery types.

The music shudders to a halt, and a round of applause goes up, pulling my focus back to the stage where Damon is now expressing his thanks and announcing the next song as their final one.

At the front a girl screams, and he rewards her by blowing her a kiss, resulting in her squealing with unabashed delight.

Oh he's good. I think to myself. He has a way of working the audience, especially the women, and he seems to revel in their attention. Like a true rockstar.

I don't stand a chance.

The guitars start up again, and I watch him sway along to the music. His sports brand, long sleeved , and baggy denim jeans are befittingly grungy. Coupled with his choppy, dark blonde hair with it's feathered fringe that skims his baby blue eyes, I can see why he's so popular with the ladies. He's unapologetically attractive, and his scruffy, careless look gives him a cool edge. He's confident, the way he swaggers across the stage in his adidas trainers betrays a self-assured attitude that somehow adds to his appeal.

Behind me, I sense people move, and turn to see Brett returning. A glass in one hand, a bottle in the other, the crowd seem to part for this anomaly of a man like the Red Sea.

"There you go." He states, and I take the glass of cola from him gratefully.

"Thanks very much." I smile, but he doesn't hear me so leans in once more, and I inadvertently breath him in. He smells clean and fresh like soap, a scent that's quite at odds with the stench of cigarette smoke and alcohol which hangs in the air.

"I said thank you." I repeat in his ear, and duly note that my pulse is misbehaving again.

"No problem." He shrugs, and for the first time I see him smile. It's a sort of slow, lazy smile that makes his eyes crinkle, and a small dimple appears in his cheek. I feel my throat constrict, spurring me into taking a nervous sip of my drink.

He takes a long swig from his bottle of lager, and my eyes involuntarily come to rest on his neck. His Adam's apple visibly bobs up and down in his throat, and I force myself to look away before he notices me staring.

More aware of the heat in the room then ever, I resist the urge to fan myself.

"Well I've gotta go and get ready, we're on next."

"Um hm." Is all I can manage in response, unable to swallow the thickness that's clogging up my throat.

"Maybe see ya later?" His enquiry sounds more like a statement, and I feel myself nodding dumbly.

With that, he leaves. Slinking off through the side door, and I'm able to breath again. Not even aware that I'd been holding my breath, as it whooshes right out of my lungs.

Oh my God. What is wrong with me?

In between sets, there is a brief lull whilst the next band set up their equipment. The crowd has dispersed, a throng of people now stand around the bar, and in the background I can just about make out the sound of the Stone Roses playing on the jukebox.

I stand in the corner, smoking a cigarette and feeling awkward, as if I'm ten years late for the prom. A regular Billy-no-mates.

A small part of me, the shy, over sensitive part, toys with the idea of leaving. Yes I'm enjoying the live music, and it's a refreshing change to be out of the stuffy flat on a Saturday night, but standing here alone is making me feel silly and slightly uncomfortable.

All around me people huddle together in groups, laughing and talking animatedly as the affects of their alcoholic beverages take hold. Perhaps if I wasn't stone cold sober I wouldn't care, in fact on the rare occasion I do drink I tend to lose my inhibitions, alcohol gives me false confidence and courage to talk to strangers. I'm one of those drunks who wants to be everybody's friend.

But I can't leave. I've yet to speak to Damon, and I'm curious to see Brett's band. Besides, he did ask if I'd stick around didn't he?

My mind begins to wander, whirling with possibilities. Wondering if he'd asked out of politeness or whether he genuinely wanted me to stay.

No. I'm being completely ridiculous. Why should he care whether I'm here or not? After all, we'd barely exchanged more than a few words, and it was Damon who had invited me. Not him.

Then, as if miraculously, Damon appears. Winding his way through the mass of people, he pauses several times in order to converse with them at random until at last he reaches me.

His smile broadens further, increasing and cocky. Which is when I realise I'm grinning back at him like a star-struck school girl.

"Ah, you came!" He drawls, and before I can respond he inclines his head and plants a kiss on my cheek.

"Uh, yeah. I said I would." Taken aback by his bold and unexpected move, I feel my face flush and hope he doesn't notice. Or at least maybe suspect it to be due to the heat.

"I'll just get a drink, then we can try and grab a seat."

I nod, and he swaggers over to the bar, a flock of girls immediately descending on him as he places his order.

Huffing under my breath, I watch him being charming, my irritation increasing as they fawn over him. He laps it up, and once again I'm struck with the thought that I'm painfully out of my depth here. Punching above my weight, hoping that he'd be interested in the likes of me.

He's a man in his early twenties, with a horde of potential groupies practically throwing themselves at his feet. They're all so confident and gorgeous, painted and shiny, whereas I feel dull, clumsy and shy. And I'm just a girl...

Eventually he gets served, and manages to escape the clutches of his adoring fangirls, enabling us to find a seat at a table that's conveniently close to the stage.

Thanks to his unfathomable popularity, the group sitting there make room for us, and for the first time we're able to chat semi-properly. Aside from the occasional interruption from one of his many acquaintances or fans, he talks to me and tells me more about himself, and I listen intently. Happy to let him lead the conversation.

His name is Damon Albarn, he hails from Essex, is 23 years old and shares a house in the trendy area of Notting Hill with three, yes THREE, other men. One being his band mate Alex, a fellow musician named Jarvis ("He's from up North too." He informs me) and the mysterious Brett. It isn't exactly the most convenient set up, he tells me, but it's necessary in order to make up the rent.

I like him, that's a given ~ I mean, who wouldn't?

He's handsome, charming and funny., and he's in an up and coming band. For me, and no doubt many other girls, he ticks all the boxes. In fact, if I'd have been able to custom order a guy, then Damon would probably have been it. And as he talks I can't help but notice him becoming increasingly more tactile, touching my arm, and at one point he even rests his hand on my knee.

I hope I'm playing it cool, but to be honest I don't really know how to respond anyway. Like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, I just sit there, smiling inanely and allow him to keep talking and touching, and hope I don't faint. Afraid of even so much as breathing the wrong way, because I don't want to blow this.

About half an hour passes when then the lights on the stage go back on, and the vaguely familiar sound of Brett's watered-down Southern accent booms through the speakers, attracting everyone's attention.

He asks if everyone's having a good night, a handful of people shout out various responses, and then he announces the name of his band...Suede (incidentally my favourite leather treatment) and then the title of the song they're about to play, but I don't catch what he says because Damon turns to the rest of the table and says, rather loudly and rudely "This should be a good laugh!"

Now, I can appreciate that men generally tend to insult each other as a form of friendly banter, which is usually taken with good humour. The two men are friends after all, they even share a house. So I'm sure Damon's jibes must be kindly meant, and I take it as nothing more than friendly rivalry. But as the music starts up, and I twist my upper body around in order to see, I hear him tut disapprovingly.

"Look at him. What does he think he looks like?"

What does he look like indeed. That's a very good question.

I can literally feel my eyes widening as they take in the sight before me.

His shirt ~ or blouse even ~ has been rolled up, and tied in a knot above his belly button (which I absentmindedly notice is an 'innie' not an 'outie') exposing a taut navel.

As if this isn't enough, he's also undone the buttons, near enough right down to the waist, so his smooth, rather well-defined chest is also clearly visible for all to see. But it doesn't end there, no it isn't just the arrangement of his clothes, and his all too nice to look at body that has me transfixed, it's his movements and overall presence.

As soon as the music begins he's prancing across the stage, hips sashaying in time to the thrashing guitars, his attitude alluring, commanding and...sexy as all hell.

I stare open mouthed, caught up in inappropriate thoughts. Then stare some more.

The delicious Damon, and the room around me falls out of focus. Forgotten.

Try as I might I can't bring myself to tear my eyes away from this enigma and his sexualised display, especially his use of the microphone. Yes, just a simple, average microphone has become a tool of seduction.

In between his warbling, beautiful vocals, he uses it as a prop, swinging it wide around his head in a controlled, confident motion before grabbing the wire and teasing it between his legs with a flair of sensuality that affects me deeply.

If anyone else did this, it would most likely be considered ludicrous, but he has the demeanour of some kind of genuine rock God.

Behind me, Damon huffs and puffs to the point where I can imagine him blowing the entire building down, like the human equivalent of the big bad wolf.

I hear him pass some derogatory comment, which momentarily gains my attention, and I feel a misplaced twinge of guilt.

He has bestowed his attention on me, and to some extent I feel like the chosen one. Which means I'm obliged to be a bit more gracious. It's rude of me to ignore him. There are dozens of girls here who would be willing to lose a limb just to change places with me. Yet here I am, sat at his side but gawking at another man.

I force myself to turn around, and Damon resumes talking, but I'm only half listening. Doing that strained, irritated listening one does when you're only half paying attention.

Each time a song finishes, I join in with the applause and I can sense Damon's irritation rising. Perhaps he's insecure. Which is mind boggling considering his popularity. And even his band went down pretty well with the lager louts hanging around the bar.

Brett's band in comparison, is gaining a mixed response. Half of the crowd seem to be enthralled by his strange, sensual performance and operatic rock vocals, whilst the other half look suitably appalled. The typical 'laddish' crowd, not appreciating the mixture of dark, melancholy lyrics and the front man's deliverance of them.

At one point, as another song finishes, from the corner of my eye I see Brett masterfully manipulate the microphone wire so that it swings around and wraps around his entire upper body, entangling him as he bows flamboyantly from the waist.

Holy shit. Did I say this man was a rock God? Perhaps sex God is a better way of describing him. And I'm hooked. Hooked and caught, ensnared by his raw sexuality and beauty.

The heady beat of the music, his inimitable voice and eatable body enticing me into a strange dark world of forbidden longing and shaking limbs.

However I'm painfully aware of Damon sitting by me, and I'm slightly worried that he has noticed the way my eyes must be bulging from their sockets, like one of those plastic toys you squeeze in the middle and the eyes pop out.

It's difficult to describe, but it's like I'm experiencing some sort of strange, sexual awakening. It's unnerving and exciting in equal measures.

I've felt attraction towards men before, and had plenty of crushes on celebs but this, this is different.

Brett no-last-name is like no one I've ever seen before, and his performance is like nothing I've ever witnessed on earth.

I seriously wonder if he wouldn't be more at home on stage in one of those seedy 'peep show' places in Soho. His microphone wire putting me in mind of bondage gear, or a whip when he thrashes it around.

The way he wiggles his arse like a pro, and then smacks it with the mic in time to the beat, seems to border on obscene. But in a good way.

If he doesn't make it in the music industry, he could easily make a good living from being a professional panty-wetter.

He announces the final song, the lights dim on the stage leaving just one single spotlight on him, and as he sings the words "oh, Angel.." that is precisely what he puts me in mind of.

Some stunning, otherworldly being, as he sings falsetto with his angelic voice, and the light casts a celestial glow around him.

I realise that I'm actually craning my neck to watch him. Unaware of my own movements, as if he has a magnetic influence over me and I'm unable to resist the pull I feel towards him.

It is then that he looks out into the crowd, and his eyes meet mine. I feel my heart begin to bounce around like a ping pong ball as he holds my gaze, and like the smitten fool that I am, I momentarily fantasise that he's actually singing to me. That he's calling me an angel.

Which is stupid, right? But hey...a girl can dream.

And then something else happens. It happens so quickly I have no way of seeing it coming, or perhaps I've just been way too distracted.

Damon leans forward and kisses me.

Like, full on the lips, without warning, kisses me.

I let out a small squeal of surprise, as I find myself caught by his soft lips. I already feel like my insides have melted into a gooey mess anyway, so his actions just add to my already erratic heart rate and jangling nerves.

The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but in my churned up state it feels like forever.

When he pulls away and registers my somewhat stunned expression, he's grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat, clearly pleased with himself.

I don't know what to do or say. I'm giddy, shocked and confused all at once. I mean, I should be absolutely thrilled that little old me has just been kissed by the likes of him. So why aren't I?

My eyes do a quick scan of the smoke filled room, searching for any disgruntled fangirls who may be staring daggers at me.

I don't reproach him, because I do like him, I like him a lot. Okay, so there wasn't exactly any fireworks going off in my head as he locked lips with me, but it was only a brief kiss, which I hadn't anticipated. So I force any doubts I have aside, and smile at him weakly.

Without knowing why, something instinctively makes my eyes wander back to the stage, and back to Brett.

He is standing, staring straight at us, eerily silent as the guitarist strums out an impressive riff. His expression unreadable.

But no sooner have I looked at him, when he turns abruptly away and resumes singing. I swallow hard, the previous tingle I'd felt creeping down my spine when he'd looked at me was now replaced with an almost icy chill. Which is weird considering it's so damn hot in here.

The song ends, and at the risk of displeasing Damon I clap enthusiastically. Thoroughly impressed by the band's performance, and Brett's vocal talents.

He thanks the crowd, smiles and waves, then leaves without looking in our direction again.

A little while later, I find myself sat at the bar with Damon and his cronies, a group of at least ten of us commandeer one half of it, and quite possibly most, if not all, of the bar stools in the entire establishment.

Everyone is comfortably drunk. Yes, myself included to some extent, after having downed two shots of God-knows-what, and some alcopop drink (typically teenagerish I know, but...shush)

After successfully coercing me into having what he calls a 'proper' drink, I'm most definitely feeling a wee bit tipsy.

He's laughing raucously and has casually draped his arm around my shoulder, making me feel like Sandy from the film Greece, and he's Danny and I'm hanging out with the rest of the .

I must be the envy of every woman in the room, as he buys me another bottle of whatever-it-is (it tastes like lemonade mixed with cider) I find myself being swept along by his joviality. His larger than life persona is a force to be reckoned with, and his enthusiasm is contagious.

Having now met his band mates, Graham, Dave, and Alex (the latter being his house mate) we sit around the bar, the topic of conversation being tonight's gig.

"So Sam, what do you think of us?" Alex asks with a wide grin.

He's a good looking, tall, skinny guy with floppy dark hair and a megawatt smile.

"Good, I thought you were really good." I reply honestly, and he beams with satisfaction.

"Only good?" Damon teases, jabbing me playfully in the ribs.

"Okay, great then." I giggle, and Graham, a slightly fidgety, nervous type who rather puts me in mind of myself, rolls his eyes behind his glasses.

"She has to say that." He jokes, with a wry smile "she's biased."

I blush uncontrollably as the rest chuckle. "No. Not at all."

"What did you think of Suede?" He asks, and luckily before I answer Alex comes to my rescue by cutting in.

"I like Suede."

"Huh. You have to say that because you're biased." Damon pipes up.

"No. Why am I?"

"'Cause you live with Brett."

"So do you, but you don't like them." Alex points out, as he drains the last dregs from his pint glass. "In fact, I'd say you don't like them because you're the one who's biased."

I feel Damon tense up and for a moment he looks perceptibly miffed, but then Alex sparks up a cigarette and adds "I give credit where it's due, they're really good."

"I think so too." I add boldly.

"Thanks. That's good to know."

Everyone looks up, and I swivel on my seat to see Brett himself standing beside me, now in the baggy and light denim jeans he was wearing earlier in the day. His hair is wet and scraped back off his face, and as he leans over the bar to grab an ashtray I catch the smell of deodorant mingled with the tiniest hint of fresh sweat. It's very manly, and I'm suddenly all too aware of his masculinity.

In spite of his androgynous look, and elegant demeanour, he's decidedly male. His shoulders are broad, and he stands a couple of inches taller than Damon. Towering over me, and at 5' 6" I'm not exactly short for a woman. In fact I'm 3 inches taller than national average.

As he unwraps a fresh pack of Benson and Hedges cigarettes I watch his hands without meaning to. They're large, and strong looking. Very capable, I think to myself.

"Great show that mate." Alex is saying now, and Brett proffers him a warm smile.

"Cheers Al. Yours too."

"Look why don't you two just get a room or something." Damon taunts, smirking behind his pint glass.

Alex chortles and ignores the remark, but Brett takes a long drag on his cigarette then retorts curtly "Why don't you two get a room? Being as they'll be no dinner date. You usually forgo the preliminaries, don't you Damon?"

Now whether or not this older man, however old Brett may be, mistakenly assumes that just because I'm not even technically old enough to legally be in the pub yet means I'm stupid, I don't know.

But I'm not. Not entirely.

I understand his meaning only too well, and whilst the scathing remark is directed at Damon, it's also implying that I'm a willing participant. That I'm the type of girl who'd be up for skipping a date, and get straight down to it. Well he's wrong. Very wrong, and I'm now bristling with anger. Deeply offended by his flippant comment and presumptuousness.

My sober self would probably let this slide, but the alcohol makes me brave.

"Er, hang on a minute. I'm not a groupie, thank you."

He looks down at me, his crystal blue eyes piercing and intense. "I never said you was did I?"

"Well no, not exactly, but you implied it."

"I speak as I find, that's all." He says, his voice irritatingly calm.

"Well I'm not that kind of girl." I insist haughtily, without pausing to think about how much of a boring prude I sound.

"That's a pity."

"Excuse me?" I sputter, heat flooding my face.

Those lovely eyes seem to twinkle and I swear I can see mischief dancing in them as he tries, and fails, to bite back a smile. "Maybe you'll change your mind. Some blokes can be very persuasive."

Anger is too kind a word for what I'm now feeling. Furious is more like it. As the sound of laughter around me fills my ears, I feel like the victim of a bad joke and the sting of humiliation is like being slapped in the face.

In response, I resort to childish retaliation. "Well even if I did, I won't be persuaded by you."

At the side of me, Damon sniggers and gives me an appreciative squeeze. I glare at Brett, who shrugs nonchalantly and proceeds to order a drink.

"D'ya wanna come back to ours after this?" Damon asks, and I have to bite my tongue.

It's either that or I bite his head off.

I can't believe he'd ask such a thing in front of everyone immediately after what Brett has just said.

"No thank you." My voice comes out sharper than I intended and I immediately regret it. I don't want to blow this chance. Convinced that he could so easily find another me.

But on the other hand, I'm not willing to be labelled a groupie when I'm not. Without meaning to sound frigid, I'm just not the type of girl who puts out on a first, second or even just the third date.

As gorgeous as Damon is, I'm not about to lower my standards in order to keep him. If he really is interested in me, then he should understand.

"Aww." He whines sulkily and makes a face. "No funny business I promise. We can just hang out, have a few more drinks-"

"She's not supposed to drink, remember." Brett suddenly interjects, and I'm so taken aback I don't know how to react.

I'm actually flabbergasted that he's remembered, and now I'm torn between feeling touched that he might actually be concerned, or angered by his interference. Perhaps he's just using my medical condition as a way of getting one over on Damon. Trying to make him look or feel bad.

"Keep your fuckin' bent nose out of it, alright mate?" Damon snaps, and I flinch slightly at the cruelness of the remark.

But Brett forces a strained laugh, and looks surprisingly amused. "I'm merely making an observation, pal. You might wanna try it some time."

This is all getting a bit too 'West Side Story' for my liking and I half expect them to pull out switchblades and start snapping their fingers at each other.

Sensing the rising tension, Alex clumsily attempts to distract the fractious pair. "Boys boys, you're both pretty. C'mon don't fuckin' start now. Have a drink, and just chill out, yeah?"

A collected laugh goes up amongst the group, and the atmosphere disperses slightly. The conversation now turning to live music, and the Madchester scene in particular.

However it's then that I see the clock behind the bar and notice the time.

Oh crap. The ball is most definitely over for Cinders.

It's almost midnight, and I promised my dad I'd be home for 11:30, so I'm already half an hour late.

It's not very rock 'n roll, and I should be rebellious and stay out partying until dawn, but as tempting as that is I don't want to be responsible for giving my dad a coronary.

I know how much he frets, and knowing my luck, being as he knows which pub I'm in I wouldn't put it passed him to show up and then I'd die of embarrassment.

Gathering up my leather jacket, I stand and mutter to Damon that I really ought to be going. Feeling decidedly lame as I attempt to explain in hushed tones that it's a miracle my dad allowed me out in the first place by myself in a new city. And yes...especially with my condition.

Gallantly, he offers to walk me home but I decline, stating that it's only down the road. At this hour of the night on a weekend, this street is never quiet ~ I know only too well.

One can't live in a flat above a shop on the doorstep of borough market and be ignorant to the continuous flow of shoppers or pub goers, at all hours of the day and night.

Pacified, Damon nods and asks if I'll meet with him tomorrow evening at Notting Hill Gate tube station.

After agreeing, I hastily bid everyone goodbye and he walks me out.

The cool air hits me, but I barely have time to take a breath when his mouth is brushing mine, only this time I respond, kissing him back nervously.

My arms hang awkwardly by my sides, unsure of where to put my hands. It feels kind of unnatural, but his hands are deeply planted in his pockets, so I'm not willing to make a further move by touching him

After kissing for what feels like an eternity, but in reality is only about a minute, I say goodnight and hurry off down the street. Feeling dizzy with delight, as I I practically float along on cloud number 9. Perhaps this was the start of something wonderful. Something new. Something far more exciting than what I'd ever had with Mark.

In my somewhat dazed and delirious state I don't notice the soft footsteps behind me until I'm almost on my doorstep, as I stop to fumble for my keys.

Whirling around, I'm startled to see none other than the distinctive figure of Brett in the dim streetlight.

Sensing my confusion and alarm he approaches slowly, as if I'm a startled cat that might run away at any moment.

"Don't panic, I just wanted to make sure you got home alright." He explains.

I stare at him blankly as he draws nearer, his handsome face half cast in shadow.

"I...I live right here." I manage, as though waking from a trance, and indicate towards the building two doors down.

My head is swirling, the combination of fresh air and the affects of the alcohol making me woozy, and I'm struggling to process the idea of him strutting around out here on his long legs, coat-less and thinking that I need an escort. Why? Why would he go to so much trouble just for me?

Was this another attempt at making Damon look bad for not seeing me to my front door?

"Well you have been drinking, so I thought someone should walk you back." He clarifies, like he's just read my mind. "My sister has a friend who has diabetes, so I know a bit about it. Didn't want you passing out or anything."

"Oh, right." I say for want of something better to say, and then before I can help myself my drunken mouth lets me down. "So you stalked me...hm. Not creepy at all."

His soft bark of laughter washes over me, sounding as adorable as he looks. He seems to actually be slightly embarrassed.

I've somehow embarrassed the man who earlier owned the stage by doing what some might consider to be inappropriate things with a mic wire.

"I didn't mean to follow you, I kinda just wanted to see you back without..." His words trail off.

"Without me knowing?" I supply, frowning slightly. "Why?"

Raking his long fingers through his still damp hair, he begins to chew on his bottom lip. "I just don't wanna tread on anyone's toes. If you know what I mean?"

"You mean Damon's? But why would he be bothered by you walking me home?"

"Well, you didn't let him walk you home."

"He did offer."

"Yeah but I'd have insisted." He states, with a slow blink as his eyes hold mine.

The breath hitches in my throat as I peer into those sparkling blue pools that I could easily drown in.

All at once I feel my knees threatening to buckle, and to my horror I wobble slightly even though I'm not completely drunk or wearing heels.

His arms immediately extend towards me, and he catches my shoulders in those certain hands. I was right. They are strong, and very capable.

"Whoa...easy there." I hear him say. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine honestly." I mutter hurriedly, absolutely mortified. He's holding me at arms length, surveying me closely as though he's not convinced.

"Are you sure?"

Lowering his head he leans in, and for one breathtaking moment I actually think he's going to kiss me. I even tilt in, the blood thumping loudly in my ears. Then I realise at the very last moment as he releases me from his grasp that he's just steadying me.

I mumble "Yep. Absolutely." And quickly move away from him before I make a complete fool of myself.

He silently watches me walk towards the door that leads up to my dad's flat, all the while I can feel his eyes on me as I slip the key into the lock. "Well uh, g'night then Brett. And um, thanks again." I somehow manage to keep my tone steady, even though my stomach is turning somersaults.

His expression is deadpan, and he nods almost imperceptibly. "G'dnight."

As I close the door behind me I find myself resting my back against it, the rough wood hard against my head.

Why am I so churned up? I feel like a snow globe that's been shaken up and put back down.

He isn't interested in me. I tell myself. He was just being friendly, and responsible, and...and if anything, he was just concerned for my well being. That's all.

Why would someone like him be interested in me? Me, the girl who's hair has turned curly in the damp night air. The girl who has to be home before midnight. The girl who isn't quite yet eighteen. The girl who has chunky thighs, and a rounded face...and...a dodgy health condition, and...

I suddenly falter.

And...why should I care so much what Brett thinks anyway? It's Damon that I like. It really is.

Isn't it?


End file.
